Survival Philosophy: Whatever Works
by llamaglamasama
Summary: What can you be expected to do when you've been alone and abandoned for so long? You gotta go with whatever works in order to survive. Contains mild themes and language.


The young boy dropped soundlessly from his position on the stonewall that surrounded the building. He quietly trailed closer to the building, taking in its appearance as he did so. The stone structure was old, at least a few decades at that, and much of it was covered with green ivy, casting the uncovered areas with mysterious shadows. The building was about five meters high, with few windows. The wooden door had an old design traced into it, mostly faded by now, but still leaving its mark. The entire area was encompassed in darkness, not even with the light from inside to repel it.

No, he knew the place would be asleep. That was his whole purpose here, after all, to finish the job undetected. As interesting as it would be to watch the targets face as he killed the scum, such a thing would raise too much fuss. If that happened, he'd never get out of the building without being seen. And then, he'd have to waste even more time to deal with the witnesses. No, this would be a quick in-and-out case, that he would make sure off.

The man, no older than six- or seventeen, picked the lock, no problem, and slipped inside, thanking whatever entities there were that the door hadn't creaked. He'd known it had been a possibility, but he hadn't quite figured out what to do about it. He slinked up the narrow stairs that began just in front of the door, wasting no time in examining the décor.

When he reached the top, he paused to listen carefully. On instinct, he turned to the left and followed the dirty carpet down the hallway. He stopped in front of each door, not risking opening them, but trying to ascertain a possible resident at the same time. Finally, he approached a door that was slightly ajar. Slow, rhythmic breathing could be heard in the darkness.

The man squeezed through the door, carefully attempting not to touch it. He succeeded, mostly, and made it into the room with only a small squeak. Thank heavens he was skinny. Still, he waited until he was certain the targets sleep hadn't been disturbed.

Quietly, he reached a hand into the confines of his deep black coat, grasping at his desired object. He pulled two out, his hands twisting one onto the other. Calmly, he raised his arm, the metallic object heavy in the youth's hand, and squeezed. Two muffled shots fired, connecting with the sleeping figure and killing him before he knew what was happening.

The teen turned, placing the gun back in his cloak and left the room, not bothering to be overly cautious. There was no one else here, no one to find the body until much too late.

He slipped back out the front door, his gloved fingers pulling his collar up. The night air swirled around him, chilling him. He scaled the wall, glancing over his shoulder, and continued away from the scene.

It was not until he found himself in an unrecognizable neighborhood that he stopped. His hand plunged into the coat once more, this time drawing a phone from its depths. He pressed the buttons in silence, placing it to his ear and looking around. After three rings, the receiver picked up.

"Moshi moshi?" A courteous female voice asked.

"It's done." He murmured, almost soundlessly.

"No one saw?"

"No one." He confirmed, a slight edge to his soft voice.

"Good. Head back and we'll have a little chat." Without waiting for confirmation, the other end hung up.

The teen shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned, waist-length blonde hair coiling around him. Cold green eyes gazed up at the pale moon.

* * *

"Come in, come in." A tall blonde woman beckoned him, her wavy hair rivaling the length of his own. And yet, she appeared only a few years older than him, in her early twenties, perhaps. But how? She always spoke with so much authority; you'd think she was in charge of the damn world. Internally shrugging, he pushed the matter aside. What did he care if some chick stopped aging or some junk like that? It was probably just a case of another arrogant bitch trying to control everyone.

"What's your name?"

"Don't have one." He grunted.

"Oh? Funny, I have many. Would you like to borrow one?" She teased. He threw her a dirty look. Yep, he was right: another controlling bitch.

"Well, Mr. No Name, it seems you did very well with your last assignment. The Boss is pleased. We'll be continuing use of your services." He grunted again and stood to leave, catching the bag she threw at him. It jingled as he opened it, counting the little gold pieces. When he finished, he turned and marched out of the quaint little room without another word.

"Well! Interesting character, isn't he?" The woman smirked slightly, turning her attention to a darkened corner of the room.

A man in a huge black trench coat nodded, having just entered the room. "A little young for this line of work. What do you know about him?"

"Not much." She sighed, pulling out a compact mirror and applying makeup. "Enough to know he has no love for police, though. Looks like his parents were killed in a police raid in Munich, Germany when he was a kid. He stayed with some woman for a few years and then suddenly vanished overseas- he seems to have stowed away on multiple ships around the world. Just a few years ago, he became known in the underground as a young assassin with insane accuracy. Since then, he's had jobs from all over the place. Wonder why he introduces him self with no name? He _used_ to be known as Kurosawa Jin, according to one of the women he stayed with. Really, you'd think they'd find a better place for a kid than keeping him in a whorehouse. But, with some people…"

"Should you really be so critical, Vermouth?" The man gave her a stern look. "As I recall, when I first ran into you, you were employed as a prostitute, though an expensive one, your clients say."

"Yes, well, like mother like daughter, I suppose." The woman sighed. "But I was older than this kid at the time. It's not unusual for a high-class woman to fool around, anyway. My mother's wealth gave me that advantage."

"What ever you say, Chris, dear. Whatever you say." The man rubbed at his temples wearily and left the room. Behind him, the woman sighed, slumping in her chair. So what if she'd been a prostitute? Sex meant money. Money meant power. Wasn't their entire goal in this organization to have power? Albeit through different means, usually extortion, blackmail, or murder. But hey, she wasn't picky. Power was power, right?


End file.
